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My Kind of Stripper
by Tim Shaw
Please welcome Tim Shaw to the every growing cabal of FTTW writers. A few of the editors know Tim, a comedian, from TotalFark and dragged him over here to entertain you. His column will appear once a month, unless we can bribe him to write more often.
Strippers fascinate me. I’m not talking about the classy Scores, Treasures and Crazy Horse strippers. I’m talking about those strippers who, if someone wasn’t paying them, would be labia massaging some drainage pipe behind a methadone clinic for three homeless dudes and a stray dog. As Picasso must paint…they must strip.
I was in New Orleans with some buddies pre-Katrina and we ducked into this strip joint on our way to Bourbon Street one night. I can only describe the décor as sort of post-70’s Cajun orgy as imagined through the translucent mole on Aaron Neville’s face.
We sat down and immediately this stripper took a fancy to me. This chick was pinging the Skankmeter. Along the low-rent stripper continuum, there’s disgusting ho, oily skank and…I don’t know…marsupial? That’s the only thing to which I can adequately compare her. She had a pouch. I swear to god, Quato peeked out of it and gurgled, “Tim, start the reactor…and stick a dollar in her thong.”
She had an open wound on her head like a third eye. It was located just above where the break in her eyebrows should have been. I swear it winked at me. Her gaping, pus-dripping carbuncle actually went wink. “Heed the words of Quato!”
She was working me hard. “I’m gonna dance extra special for you, honey.” She was rubbing my crotch with her furry, little marsupial hands. “You wanna watch me dance just for you, darlin’?”
She was talking real close to my face and her breath smelled like rotted cock. I don’t know how I know what rotted cock smells like, but this just had to be it.
Finally, she says, “It’s my turn. Here comes your dance, baby.” She got up and you know how sometimes when you’re sitting down and you fart, your ass cheeks create kind of a hermetically sealed bubble from which the fart smell can’t escape, but when you get up, the odor has magnified to some radioactive intensity because it has fermented in its humid, methane tomb? Well, she stood up and pungent, aged egg fart filled the air. And I know it wasn’t one of my buddies, because guys can’t wait to claim that shit and we all looked at each other like, “Was that you?” “Nope, not my brand.”
She sashayed/wobbled her way to the stage, occasionally stopping, turning and staring at me like Linda Blair getting ready to heave pea soup.
Upon taking the stage, she began a series of jerks and spasms that, in her meth-addled brain, probably seemed like dancing. At one point I believe she actually did the robot. Her look of seduction more resembled an excruciating bout of constipation. She was working hard, though, and eventually she slid down the pole until she was writhing on her back on the stage.
After a few minutes, and with no warning, she started slapping the shit out of the floor like a crazed bongo player. This startled my friends and I and we strained to see what was causing the commotion. It turned out that a cockroach as big as a Tonka truck was scurrying across the stage and she was after it with full force. After about two minutes of manical floor-slapping, she finally got it. Wham! Crunch!
Now, this might have thrown most strippers, but not Chastity. That was her name, by the way. No, not Chastity. Extermination complete, she went right back to the seduction; smearing the fetid roach guts all over her tits and crotch.; smashed roach eggs, marsupial sweat and the thick New Orleans humidity rubbed into a paste and garnished with Quato spit and carbuncle pus.
My friends, you can have your Crazy Horse and Cheetah’s strippers with their glitter and vanilla body lotions and lack of visible, gangrened knife wounds to the head. But for me, unless she’s a pouch birthing, rotted cock gobbling, egg farting, giant vermine killing, robot-dancing machine, my rolled up dollar bills are staying right in my pocket.